


Stendarr's Fist: Chapter I - The Jerall Caravan

by Quibii



Series: Stendarr's Fist [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bretons (Elder Scrolls), Fantasy, Magic, Nord, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other, Stendarr - Freeform, imperial - Freeform, vigilant of stendarr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28914912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quibii/pseuds/Quibii
Summary: Helena's journey begins under the guard of a merchant caravan led by Thorias. Caravan Master Thorias is a man at the precipice of nobility, eager to find that trade excursion that'll see him written in history. Warnings of Skyrim's uncertain political and geographical climate fail to deter the man as he makes his way north.
Series: Stendarr's Fist [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120676





	Stendarr's Fist: Chapter I - The Jerall Caravan

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first published work, and the first chapter in my fanfiction series 'Stendarr's Fist,' based on The Elder Scrolls universe. While I've stuck to a good bit of established Elder Scrolls lore, I have made some editorial changes. Primarily, both the Civil War between the Empire and the Stormcloaks has not yet occurred, and likewise with the "Great War" between the Empire and Aldmeri Dominion. There are whispers and politicial tensions, but nothing overt.

Snow fell upon the southern crags of Skyrim, blanketing the path between the Jerall Mountains and the greater province with sheets of pale fury. The blizzard came as no surprise in a region where the Summer’s chill was harsh, and the Winter harsher still. Those who braved the journey, either up north for some Eight-forsaken reason or down south to the cosmopolitan lands of Cyrodiil knew to take the journey during the day, or to seek shelter amongst warm fur tents during the night. 

This was just one of many warnings that Thorias, a covetous man, heard as he rounded up his motley assortment of Imperials, Nords and Bretons in the Imperial City for a caravan expedition to the land of their Atmoran-descended brethren. Trade between Skyrim and Cyrodiil had always been fair, and the whisperings of idle nobility that spoke about civil war didn’t seem to deter the man. If anything, the sales of weapons would certainly skyrocket during a time of conflict. They made a few stops along the way to the Jerall Mountains, including Chorrol as a rendezvous point with its merchantry and then Bruma as a final stop before venturing north to the Nordic province. 

Despite the warnings not to travel at night still fresh in the back of Thorias’ mind, he opted to try and make the journey along the final stretch of frost-cursed land while the sun retreated, and the two moons approached. They packed no tents, as his plan was to make their stop for the night in the city of Helgen. It looked as if their gamble might pay off, but when the caravan approached their first waypoint some unseen scourge wrested control of the reins that commanded their horses. Before the caravan and its patrons could fathom what was happening, the mounts broke out into an unholy frenzy bent on exploiting the hubris of their masters. Carts were overturned as the Imperial steeds bucked and whinnied; goods thrown to the forces of nature while riders were sent to the snow-plagued dirt. 

Men and women roared and screamed as the chaos ensued. Some were lucky enough to sustain a few scrapes and bruises that would well up the next morning. Others were less fortunate. One broke their ribs. Another shattered several bones. It wasn’t until two weeks later when he would visit an apothecary that would inform him his legs were lame; that he would never walk again. 

The chaos didn’t subside until the horses, in their brazen furor, finally broke free of the straps that bound them to the carriages and carts. They trampled off into the four corners of the wilds like a stampede possessed. By the time the proverbial and literal dust settled, the only sign of their horses was the discord they left in their wake. The carts were nothing more than shattered debris. Many of their goods had been destroyed, including wooden implements and weapons predominantly made of wood. Some others had been damaged, though they were still in a sellable condition. The merchants were quick to task their attendants with scraping through the sleet to salvage what they could. 

This was about an hour ago. Since then, a makeshift campfire had been made in a slight clearing of the woods, adequate enough to try staving off the encroaching chill. Without steeds to haul their goods, the caravan was virtually immobile. The mercantile masters held their hands close to the flame, writhing as if they were the ones whose fingers stung from frost. A single Nordic scout had been sent further north to Helgen roughly thirty minutes prior. With luck, they may be able to send help to their most financially fortunate patrons. Some of the traders busied themselves by discussing the next step out of this unfortunate position. 

“We can’t risk the journey, not yet” started one man as he clutched his fine robes close. “Too slow on foot.” One woman in similar robes looked at him with scorn. “What do you suggest then? That we wait here until we freeze to death?” 

“I’m sure Eidhelm will be back any moment,” Thorias reassured with his eyes to the flame, speaking of the Nord they sent to Helgen. On the opposite side of the bonfire, a priestess of Stendarr by the name of Helena spoke to another man. The horse’s outburst had sent him into a state of panic. Helena tried to calm him with simple prayer, telling him of the merciful side of Stendarr that would be shown to them. 

The man, a stocky Breton, held his arm close to his breast. Even after calming his nerves, it took a bit of coaxing before he’d let his guard down. She took his arm into her gentle grasp. The arm was sickly pale, cold to the touch. Helena examined the wound carefully, noting external traumas that were familiar to her. She recognized it from the times she made pilgrimage to the sister chapel up in Bruma. The colder climate there made frostbite a more common occurrence, and this…looked far worse. She used a simple spell of restoration, conjuring a warming aura of healing from her palms to the afflicted limb. It eased the pain. 

“Will it heal?” The Breton asked, bracing it once more. 

“I believe so,” Helena lied.

At the edge of the clearing, the underbrush stirred. Two guards stood from their place at the flame’s embrace. One nocked an arrow along his smoothed bow, his bicep groaning with a familiar strain as he carefully aimed. The other drew her blade, laden with rust but freshly sharpened. It wasn’t until the disturbance revealed itself as the Nord sent up north that either of them relaxed their stance. Thorias stood, approaching him. 

The scout returned empty-handed, a sign that clearly infuriated the caravan master where it worried the lesser followers. He bore no mounts, no wagons, not even a sign that they still held their prearranged lodging. The wrath the Nord might incur seemed to pale in comparison to what he witnessed, and that alone calmed the master enough to use the Tamriellic tongue instead of whatever vitriol he originally intended. 

“Well?” The caravan master Thorias snarled. The enraged beast of a man didn't seem to phase the Nord, much to his chagrin. That frustration turned to concern. "What did you see?" he asked again, his tone more respectful if only because of his own unease. At first there was no response as he sidled up to the campfire's embrace, palms outstretched to welcome its warmth. The dread in his face was given new light by the embers’ glow.

"Nothing," started the Nord. 

" What do you mean noth- "

"I mean there's nothing!" he roared, befitting his Nordic blood but unbecoming of his status. "Nine protect, it's all brimstone and ash." 

"All?" came the wispy voice of the Nordic woman. Where their Imperial masters saw an unfortunate roadblock in their way, the Nords felt for their kin. By Oblivion, there could have been brothers and sisters in Helgen at the time. Without a response to quell her concerns, she fell into silent prayer for the men and women she did not know, but knew they deserved a better fate. She prayed that Sovngarde would welcome them as they deserved. Helena joined in a similar prayer. She had not dedicated herself to Arkay, the God of Life, Death and Burial Rites, but she gave a prayer nonetheless. It was more than these mercantile vagabonds dared to do. 

When all was said and done, the merchants consorted with one another. They declared Helgen was still their only path forward. Some seemed uncertain, while others could see their reasoning. It must really be the only option. There were arguments about whether they should wait until morning so that the cold might show mercy during the day. The larger coin-purses with their greed and impatience won out, though it was under the guise of selfless thought. "What's left of Helgen might still provide shelter,” they argued. It was a reasonable argument. 

Another few minutes had been spent securing the cargo and tending to any wounds still unaccounted for. The servants hauled what goods they had salvaged while the traders carried what little they were willing to. Even Helena was tasked with bearing some goods, however her load was far less unreasonable. There must be some kind of misfortune in saddling a woman of Stendarr's temple like a mule, after all. They took longer than the scout, but still made good time as they marched along the mountain-encased path. They knew they were getting close when, after over an hour’s journey, the snow-tipped trees made way for clean birch. 

The second sign of their approach to the settlement wasn’t a patrol of guards, spires reaching for the skies or the hustle and bustle of its citizens. The second sign was the blackened smoke billowing into the air, choking the clouds with its fiery miasma. Where stone walls once stood to protect the people, there was only rubble. Helena choked back her horror when they came across the first body; a corpse charred past the point of identification, curled up in some grotesque cross between pain and fear. 

Even those whose hearts were usually set on the gold they could make felt grief for those who suffered this abhorrent carnage. Very few people on Nirn deserved such a fate. Two caravan guards began trying to force the ajar city gates fully open. It didn’t take much before their hinges groaned, gave way, and allowed the gates to crash against the soot. The caravan—or what was left of it—filed into the ruins of Helgen. As far as the eye could see was ash, burned wood and charred stone. Towers would become rubble in a matter of weeks. Houses made of wood had already begun disintegrating. There were more bodies strewn across the courtyard of the entrance. Some of the town’s walls still stood, albeit barely. 

“Even if there were survivors, they wouldn’t be here,” Thorias mused as he thumbed the pendant underneath his robes. “We don’t have the time or energy to get to the next settlement.” He took a second to compose himself before turning upon his heel to face the rest of his allies. 

“We’ll have to make camp here, in what shelter we can find.” 

His command sent most into a verbal frenzy of varying proportions. Some balked at the very notion of taking shelter in this wreckage that was undoubtedly ground zero for some manner of catastrophe. Others, albeit the minority, could see the reasoning behind such an audacious suggestion. Once again, the hierarchy determined their course of action. It took time, scouring structures that didn’t seem likely to hold for the night. That is, until one woman found the guard barracks. Its stubborn architecture had weathered much of the annihilation, and aside from the disarray no doubt caused by the destructive havoc, it was livable. Men, women and other citizens from the caravan slowly piled indoors, unloading their cargo and divvying up the space. 

Helena took a modest section of the barracks, setting out her bedroll. She set about removing the priestess robes from her person, beige with trimmings of gold and various divine etchings. They were meticulously folded beside the bedroll, leaving the woman in smallclothes that would be as appropriate in daily wear as they were for sleep. Her pendant was next, a circular disc of emerald with a tipped goblet. Along the edges were Imperial inscriptions akin to the ones found on an Imperial septim coin. ‘The Empire is Law. The Law is Sacred.’ Once upon her knees, Helena gave a quiet and solemn prayer. First as her devout duties called for, then for her own safety. Finally, she gave prayer to those who she did not know, slaughtered by whatever foul machinations saw fit to try and wipe Helgen from Skyrim’s geography. Stendarr had not shown mercy this day but may Arkay protect those unfortunate souls.


End file.
